The air inside Borgin and Burkes was thick with dust and secrecy, the scent of aged wood and old magic clinging to every surface. Dim candle light flickered off tarnished silver and warped glass, casting restless shadows across the crammed shelves. Cursed objects whispered from their perches, their dark enchantments seething beneath layers of grime.

Behind the counter stood Tom.

Tall, lean, and composed, he was a creature of careful precision. His movements were smooth, deliberate, each step measured as if the world itself was a board beneath his feet, and he, its master strategist. The flickering light barely touched him, seeming to bend away from the sharp angles of his face, from the jet-black waves that framed his pale skin. He was statuesque, a figure carved from something finer than mere flesh—something colder, untouchable.

He wore darkness well, his long fingers trailing idly over the surface of an ancient tome, though his mind was elsewhere. Always calculating. Always watching. Borgin and Burkes was not a place of employment to him, but a step—a necessary one. The artifacts surrounding him held power, history, secrets, and he intended to wield them all.

There was a stillness about him, a quiet authority that made the very air seem to bow under his presence. The world, after all, was made for those who knew how to take it. And Tom Riddle always took what was his.

His attention shifted as he heard the bell hung over the heavy door ring.